


Ravish You

by crossroadrain



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe - Ballet, BAFM!John, Ballet, Ballet Dancer Sherlock, John Plays Rugby, M/M, Rugby, ballet!lock, rugby!john
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-12
Updated: 2014-09-29
Packaged: 2018-02-17 02:41:09
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 2,680
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2293943
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crossroadrain/pseuds/crossroadrain





	1. Chapter 1

“I am not gay, you know,” John drawled quietly after the practice. He came to watch Sherlock dance every week after rugby and stayed to the end so he could walk him home afterwards. He was sprawled on the wooden benches, watching as Sherlock moved around, gathering his stuff and pulling a large sweater over his head of unruly dark curls.

“Never said you were,” the answer came somewhere over his head and when John pushed up on his elbows, he was presented face to face with a porcelain white skin and cold, focused, celestial pair of eyes that hungrily bored into him.

“But watching you, I want to kiss you. I want to ravish you and… fuck.” He laughed, shaking his head as he went. Sherlock studies him for a moment, then hummed to himself and stood, going for his bags and keys. “Are we going?”

“M-yes, come on.”

Sherlock took the bag, hanging it on his shoulder and headed for the door, John closely behind. They were halfway to Sherlock\s apartment when John stopped and looked after his retreating back. He breathed hard, breathing through the nose. It took some time before he jogged to Sherlock, grabbing the sweater, tugging him to stop. Sherlock turned; his face curious and a bit nervous.

“Can I?” John growled, shaking and annoyed out of his skin. He was breathing hard, his face flushed, his pulse elevated and pupils blown wide. All he could see was Sherlock in those tights and his moving body and his muscles stretching and flexing and his head bowing to pull the sweater on.

“What?”

“Can I kiss you? I’m sorry. I’m sorry. It’s…”

He grabbed him and kissed him. It was too fast, too stupid, really clumsy and Sherlock gasped in surprise but didn’t pull back. John grabbed for his lapels, manhandled him on the pavement and pushed him to the wall. He covered the whole of him, it didn’t matter that Sherlock was taller, john had much broader frame and when Sherlock moved his head, his mouth searching, john covered him whole and grabbed at him, his sweaty shaking hands holding tight, so tight he would realize later, he was leaving dark purple bruises over Sherlock’s body and it must’ve heard but Sherlock never said a thing, never whimpered when John too his mouth greedily and kissed him like he was kissing him for the last time.

Some whistled behind them and “Fuck him!” was shouted, shaking John in his wake. He growled, almost screaming in Sherlock’s mouth. His fist collided with the wall right beside Sherlock’s head. Once and then again and Sherlock shivered, making himself small, shifting into a ball as John continued cursing and sneering and hitting the wall, santé meters away of his face. The delicate beautiful face he wished he had all the time in to world to kiss and touch.

“John!” Sherlock gasped in surprise, ducking his head and hunching his shoulders. “John, please!”

“I am not…” He breathed hard, losing his voice, his breath hitching. John’s hands tightened on Sherlock’s sides. He was clutching him in the middle, then his fingers traced his sides and tights and he pulled him, grinding the tall lean body on his own in a barbaric panicked motion. He needed to feel him close, so close he couldn’t make the difference between them anymore but his mind couldn’t rest. His fear keeping him alert no matter his final decision to overcome any fear and be with Sherlock. “I am fucking in love with you.”

He grabbed Sherlock’s hand and tucked him after himself. It took no more than ten minutes to get to his apartment. Sherlock unlocked the door, John trailing silently after him, closing the doors Sherlock opened and trying not to reach out and touch him as they climbed the stairs and Sherlock’s behind moved mere inches away of John’s hungry desperate hands.

He didn’t give him any time. As soon as Sherlock divested of his bag and shoes, John was onto him, pulling the sweater off, pulling the tights around his hips and lower until he had to take each of Sherlock’s feet in his hands and free him of the tight ballet attire. He stood, fully clothed and Sherlock reach to tuck his jacket off but John jerked and stepped back.

“On the bed,” he ordered; his voice rasped and rugged, shaking with anticipation; his mind clouded and fussy with want.

Sherlock drawled a shaky breath but obeyed and walked obediently to the bed, sitting on the edge and waiting. John took his naked form for a moment, memorizing him like this and stepped closer. He pushed Sherlock back with the whole body, his callused hands finding soft hips and tugging them around himself, his chest pressing Sherlock down on the bed as his mouth fell on Sherlock’s and John had to fight his way inside him this time. He knew something was wrong, that Sherlock wasn’t calming down. Quite the opposite, he tensed under John’s body, his legs still wrapped around John’s middle, his mouth pliant and soft against John’s feverish attack.

“What is it?” John asked quietly, whispering in his ear and he felt Sherlock tremble and hushed breath washed over his nape.

“No, it’s nothing.”

John growled and his hips slammed against the bed, making Sherlock’s whole body shake with the force. He grabbed his shoulders and slammed him onto the bed, Sherlock’s trembling getting worse moments before John realized what he was doing.

“I’m sorry.” Shaking his head and keeping his eyes shut, he tried to get away from the bed, away from Sherlock, but the strong legs around him kept him into place.

“I get you are angry,” Sherlock was whispering and doing it deliberately. John had to lean closer to hear him and this only gave Sherlock the opportunity to lock him not only with legs, but with his arms too. “But please, please, John, I just want to see you. Just this once.”

“To see me?” John didn’t seem to understand.

“Naked. Yes.”

John gulped. “Are you sure?”

Sherlock nodded and it was all the confirmation John needed. He didn’t want to be naked, not now, not when Sherlock could see him but Sherlock wanted it and whatever Sherlock wanted, John felt the compulsion to give him. He striped quickly, Sherlock’s hands tugging and helping, getting rid of his rugby jacked and while John was taking his shirt off, he felt long hot fingers on stomach and playing with his fly, opening his jeans so when John leaned back down again, Sherlock felt his hot skin against his own and when John fucked him slowly and deliberately, he could barely register the world outside of John Watson’s presence.


	2. Chapter 2

The next time John saw him in the corridor, he didn’t say ‘hello’ and he didn’t smile. He walked past him, closing the distance, pushing students that happened to stay between them and inched closer. His hand grabbed Sherlock’s for a moment and then the crowed separated him and Sherlock was pushed into the lockers and John, swamped down the corridor; the whole rugby team making stupidly much noise, all of them buzzing for the game in the afternoon.

Sherlock kept walking and spent the day in the studio, practicing for nothing as no one would take him on their show. They liked him well enough and he was always so sure of himself and then a tip or a whisper or a scandal and they dropped him and he was always here – in the empty studio, trying for perfection and terribly failing.

He didn’t exactly know how it always happened, probably Mycroft could’ve helped but he was angry at him and Sherlock was too stubborn to do something about it. He wasn’t ill, he did step on the edge but was lucky enough to have John, pulling him back and forcing him into a healthy eating habit.

It was pouring outside, the rain drumming on the windows in the studio and Sherlock turned the music up and focused on dancing his routines a couple of times each. He tried hard not to think of the lack of auditions and roles and reminded himself the image of John, sprawled on the stands by the doors, smiling and sated with just sitting there, watching him dance, as if these wasn’t a place in the world he’d rather be that here, in the studio with Sherlock.

He was standing by himself, stretching in the studio, when his phone chirped.

_Will you make it today?_

Sherlock tried and failed to fight the smile, spreading his mouth. He took the phone to his mouth, hiding behind the metallic case.

_Is it a wise idea? SH_

_It’s the best idea I’ve ever had._

Sherlock smiled to himself and shook his head.

_Fine, I’ll be there. SH_


	3. Chapter 3

John jogged on the pitch, his shirt loose around him and the wind ruffling his hair. He looked around, looking for Sherlock, but he still wasn’t here. And John hoped to the bone that he was going to come; he needed him to come, even just so John could look at him from the corner of his eye and know that there was somebody here that stood in the crown just because of him; because of him and him alone.

He was doing push-ups for warming up when he saw him come from the school, the lust dark curls dancing around his face and the sweater bunched around him in the cold wind. The game started before Sherlock could make it to the pitch and John vaguely saw him by the stands, sitting awkwardly on the edge of one of the benches, his back hunched, the bag hung loosely on his shoulder. Problem was, when John looked back to Sherlock, he was gone from his seat and nowhere to be seen.

“John!” Lestrade shouted, running past him to flick him on the back of the head. “Keep your mind on the field, Captain!”

Mike nodded from the other side of the pitch and John waved at him, turning his head, his gaze running over the woods and the field beyond the stands. Sherlock was there – as were another four people John barely recognized. He assisted in a pass and his team scored, John taking the time they cheered to recognize Anderson and his idiots of friends pilling around Sherlock.

The game continued and he had the ball, running, dodging the other team, his eyes on the field and his mind on Sherlock, stealing glances after him as he ran. The morons were shouting now and…

“Bloody fuck!” John screeched as they took him to the ground, three of them launching themselves over his body.

Anderson pulled on his collar, choking him, his back to the field. He never saw John coming. The captain didn’t need a second glance the moment he saw what was happening behind the stands. He was running with the ball in his hands, meters from scoring and Mike was shouting at him, urging him to keep his head in the game but once he glanced to the public, he couldn’t think about the game anymore. Seeing Sherlock in the grass snapped him into focus. He threw the ball somewhere behind his shoulder, Mike’s voice vaguely recognizable in the background, the roar of the public, the team, the coach waving behind him, loud and at the same time mute, absolutely pointless and unimportant. All that mattered was Sherlock.

The moment John reached them he grabbed Anderson, butting him in the head as hard as he could. Sherlock whimpered, screaming and him to stop, but John didn’t register any of it. He threw Anderson on the grass, kicking him and grabbed for the other guys, flashing kicks and fist and cursing at them through clenched teeth.

They couldn’t run fast enough. John stood, breathing heavy, his knuckles bloodies and bruised, much like Sherlock’s face and shoulders, the ripped sweater revealing far too much skin for John’s liking. He crouched, slouching over Sherlock, hiding him from sight and wrapped himself around him as tight as he could.

Sherlock was panting, breathing heavy in his hands, but he didn’t squirm and didn’t say a thing. He clutched the back of the rugby shirt, keeping John close and watched over John’s should as heavy footfalls shook the ground and the whole rugby team gathered around them, some of the players running in the direction Sherlock’s abusers had run off to.

“You two alright, Cap?” Lestrade stood closer, leaning a little to peer at the couple on the ground. “We stopped the game when we saw what happened.”

“Call a doctor,” John snapped and looked up, his hands protectively around Sherlock. “They had beaten him up… they beat him up pretty badly.”

“I’ve had worse, John.” Sherlock added simply and nodded at Lestrade once. His hand climbed up John’s arm and curled around his biceps. “That pose looks suspicious, John,” he simply pointed out. John snapped his head down to look at him. “You are not…”

“Shut the fuck up!” John grinned widely, shaking his head. Sherlock blinked at him, he tentatively dared a sheepish smile, one that suggested he had no idea what was going on. “I don’t care,” John took on him to explain. “I’ve been thinking and I don’t care. I got the fucking bouquet and I was going to dress you up in my rugby jacket and show you around. I don’t give a shit anymore and I am bloody furious the morons ruined up my cheesy, romantic, utterly idiotic display of possessiveness over you. You hear me, I am mad!”

Sherlock laughed but his bruised chest cut him off. John frowned and stood, kneeling beside him as Mike tossed him his jacket and bag, brought from the stands. He put the jacket under Sherlock’s head and barked demands for doctors again. The medical assistant for the match ran to them, John agitatedly explaining what have happened and trying to coax Sherlock into receiving some medical help without freaking the medics out of the pitch.


	4. Chapter 4

John was lying in bed, watching the long lean form under the covers starting to move around. He hand moved on its own accord and before he knew it his hand was on a shoulder and his whole body was turned towards Sherlock’s, pushing the younger man into his chest.

“Hey,” he murmured quietly and kissed the silhouette of a head beneath the cover. He body squirmed again and Sherlock pushed up, his curls making an appearance first then his face and long neck. “Are you feeling better today?”

“No.” John couldn’t help but laugh a little at Sherlock’s unhappy tone. “I feel sore.”

“I know, I know.”

John moved to take the painkillers from the night stand and turned back, glass of water in hand and two tablets. He gave them to Sherlock, directing the pills into his mouth and handing him the glass with expectant look on his face.

“You refused to take the pills last night, do you remember?” Sherlock nodded but didn’t say anything.

“You refused to kiss me,” was all he offered after a few seconds.

“Yes, I did, you whole family was in the room.”

“Are we alone now?” Sherlock asked, his voice baring that little tone of annoyance John found weirdly endearing.

“Yes, we are.”

Sherlock looked at him – he just looked at him and it took John a few seconds to catch up but the raised eyebrows and the disbelief of Sherlock’s face threw him in the right direction pretty fast. He just smiled and the next thing he knew, Sherlock was on his knees, straddling him, his hands on either side of John’s face. Watson was frozen for a second then but moved fast and efficient. He grabbed Sherlock and moved him around, cautious of his cuts and bruises. He laid him on the bed again, shifting his body between Sherlock’s legs and wrapping them around his back. All the while he was kissing him senseless.


End file.
